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rumpydumper2 · 7 days ago

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It’s my cologne.

That’s where it begins for most of them — but especially for him.

The scent hits first. It always does. Leather and smoke, with warm notes of aged cedar, worn tobacco, musk that clings to the lungs like memory. But under it all — beneath the rich, masculine perfume I distilled over years of trial and private experimentation — there’s something that doesn’t come from any bottle. Something that wraps around the mind like a warm fog. Gentle. Heady. Opening.

I don’t need to touch. I don’t need to command. All I need to do is be there — and breathe.

He was straight when I met him. The real kind. The kind that walks around with a cocky grin, a worn baseball cap, and no real awareness of how much of his identity is just noise. His voice was always a little too loud. He always looked like he was performing for someone, though I don’t think he ever figured out who. Confident in the way young men are when no one’s ever made them doubt themselves — yet.

That gym was full of them. Shaved chests, neon tanks, cold stares. They glanced at me sometimes — older, heavier, hairier — then looked away like they hadn’t. He was no different. The first few times, anyway.

Until he caught my scent.

I was sitting on the bench near the back corner, toweling off, the cologne still fresh on my beard and chest. I saw him walk past, mid-conversation with a friend, mid-laugh. Then I saw him stop. A beat too long. Just a breath. That’s all it took. His laugh cracked. His eyes flicked to me, puzzled. I didn’t even smile. Just met his gaze. Let the scent do its work.

He wouldn’t remember that moment. I made sure of it. It would dissolve into the background of his day, like a skipped beat — like forgetting why you walked into a room. But his body remembered. His brain learned something, in ways his conscious mind couldn’t grasp.

That’s the trick of it. The cologne doesn’t shove. It seeps. It convinces.

He started changing his schedule. I didn’t ask him to. He just started arriving when I was there. He told himself it was coincidence. That he liked the quieter hours. But I watched him — how he lingered near me, how he seemed distracted, a little more uncertain around me than anyone else. That cocky smile softened when he talked to me. He forgot to perform.

He asked about my cologne on the third week.

“What is that stuff you wear?” he said, with a nervous chuckle. “Smells… I don’t know. Good. Strong.”

I just said, “Something I make myself.” And that was enough.

He didn’t notice the way his breathing changed when he got close to me. How his body leaned in. How his shoulders dropped a little. He didn’t question why he started listening to me more — why when I gave advice, he followed it, even when it contradicted everything he’d done before.

I told him he’d look better with a beard.

Two weeks later, he stopped shaving. He told me it was just laziness. He said it offhandedly, as if he barely noticed. But I saw him stroking it while we talked, tugging the edges while his eyes flicked toward mine, waiting for approval. When I reached out and touched his cheek — thickening with scruff — he didn’t flinch. He just smiled. Nervous. Flushed. Obedient.

He still thought he was straight. That was important.

He still dated girls for a while. Still posted their pictures, still made the occasional comment about “getting laid.” But there was something hollow in it. The way someone sings along to lyrics they don’t understand. He was going through the motions, but the heat was gone. The hunger.

Meanwhile, I was in his dreams.

He wouldn’t tell me at first. But it leaked out, slowly, as it always does. The confusion. The vividness. The way he could feel the heat of my body, smell my chest hair, the weight of it — heavy, masculine, real. He said it like he was confessing something. I just smiled and rubbed his shoulder.

He stayed longer each night. Claimed he lost track of time. We’d sit on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, his breathing slower when I was near. Sometimes his head would tilt, just barely, until it touched me. He never apologized. Never pulled away. And I never said a word.

By then, the changes were more than social. His clothes shifted. He stopped wearing flashy brand names. He bought flannel. Heavier jeans. Real boots. He told me he was “trying a new look.” He didn’t remember where the idea came from. I did.

I helped him cut his hair shorter, rougher. Said it brought out his jaw. It did. He looked good. He always had. He just hadn’t known how to be seen before.

He stopped waxing his chest. That was my rule. I wanted him natural. I wanted him mine. The first time he stripped off his shirt and I saw the new growth — darker, denser, thicker — he blushed. I stepped forward, placed a hand on his chest, and said softly, “Good.”

He didn’t speak. But he stood a little straighter.

He sleeps in my bed now.

I never told him to. He just… started. A few nights a week, at first. Then every night. His old apartment’s still out there somewhere, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He has a toothbrush here. A drawer. A place by my side. And in his mind, this has always been the way it was going to be.

He calls me “Daddy” now. Not with a wink or a smirk. Not in some playful, performative way. He says it like it’s my name. Says it softly when I brush past him. Whispers it when he wraps his arms around me at night, burying his face in my chest hair, breathing me in like he needs it to sleep.

And he does.

When he’s away from me too long, he gets restless. Fidgety. He doesn’t know why. Can’t explain it. But when I pull him in and press his face to my beard, I feel the tension leave his body. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

He never questions it.

Never wonders why his old self feels like a stranger now. Never wonders when exactly he stopped wanting women, or why the thought of obeying me feels so right, so natural. Why hearing “good boy” makes him close his eyes and smile.

Because he doesn’t remember who he was.

He thinks he’s always been this way — mine. Submissive. Devoted. Gay. In love with his big, hairy Daddybear.

And he is. Because I made him that way.

All it took was a little patience. A slow hand. A warm embrace. And a scent that slipped into every crack of his mind, filling the spaces he didn’t know were empty.

It’s my cologne.

And he’s mine.

Now. Always.

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rumpydumper2 · 2 months ago

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Swapped At Birth.... With Dad?!

(AI-Generated - My 1000th post on this blog! Let's celebrate it with an utterly perverse story featuring one of my absolute favourite TF themes; to find out you've been swapped at birth! Bring some tissues and enjoy! /Verus)

Liam, at eighteen, had never felt at home in his own skin. Lean, smooth, with sharp green eyes and a mop of dark hair, he stood apart from his family—his burly, hairy father, Joel, and his petite, nervous mother, Karen. Their suburban house was a pressure cooker for Liam’s secrets: his homosexuality and a perverse, years-long obsession with his father’s thick, hairy body.

Joel, forty-two, was an office manager with a thick beard, a furry belly that strained his khaki pants, and a scent of sweat and cedar that drove Liam wild. Late at night, Liam would sneak into the laundry, burying his face in Joel’s sweat-stained shirts, inhaling the primal musk, jerking off to visions of his dad’s hairy chest, rough hands, and the commanding way he filled a room.

It was a shameful fixation, one he’d never dared voice, until a government letter upended their lives.

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with a cryptic insignia. Karen opened it, her hands trembling as she read aloud: Liam had been “swapped at birth” due to a rare quantum anomaly, his mind had jumped into another body during delivery. A secret department was contacting affected families, summoning them to a facility to learn the truth. Liam’s heart raced—fear, hope, and a twisted thrill coiled in his gut. Who could he possibly be? A boy from another family?

Joel the father scoffed, tossing the letter onto the kitchen counter. “Bunch of nonsense.”

But Karen’s voice quivered as she recalled her husband suddenly fainting during Liam’s birth, waking up with amnesia for a month. “You were… different after, Joel. Maybe this can explain why…”

They drove to the facility the next day, Liam buzzing with anticipation, his cock half-hard in his jeans at the possibilities of his real identity. Joel sat silent, his hairy hands gripping the wheel, dread etched into his bearded face.

In a sterile room, the air humming with machinery, a wiry scientist explained. “At birth, Liam’s consciousness swapped with another’s due to a quantum anomaly. His current body isn’t his biological one.”

Liam leaned forward, pulse hammering, his erection pressing against his zipper. “Who’d I swap with? Who am I really?”

The scientist hesitated, glancing at Joel, then dropped the bomb. “Your father, Joel. Liam’s mind is in Joel’s biological body, and Joel’s mind is in Liam’s.”

The room tilted. Karen gasped, clutching her purse. Joel’s face went pale, his meaty hands trembling.

“That’s impossible,” the father growled, voice cracking. “I’m me. I’ve always been me!”

Liam, though, felt a surge of perverse ecstasy, his cock throbbing painfully. He was his own father? That hairy, beefy, musky body he’d lusted after was his? His mind flooded with images of Joel’s hairy chest jiggling as he walked, his armpits dripping after a long day, his cock heavy in his khakis. Liam bit his lip, stifling a moan, precum soaking his boxers.

The scientist pressed on. “Karen, you mentioned Joel’s amnesia post-birth. That aligns with the swap. Liam, as a baby’s mind forced into an adult body, had to adapt and assume his new identity. Joel, in the baby’s body, retained no memories as the shock erased his past adult life.”

Karen nodded slowly, her eyes with a glimmer of slow realization. “He was… off for weeks. Confused, distant, as if he didn’t recognize himself. I had to teach him everything anew.”

Joel slammed a fist on the table, his voice raw. “This is bullshit! I can’t be my own son!”

Liam barely heard, his body thrumming with desire. He stared at his furious father—his rightful body—imagining burying his face in that hairy chest, licking the sweat from his pits, owning every musky inch.

“Holy fuck, that’s me…” he whispered, voice low, his erection aching as he shifted in his seat.

The scientist cleared his throat. “Per regulation, now that Liam’s eighteen, the swap must be reversed tomorrow, regardless of consent.”

Joel’s eyes widened, horror carving lines into his face. Liam’s lips curled into a wicked grin, his cock leaking at the thought of claiming his birthright. “Give it back, Dad” he said, voice thick with lust, locking eyes with his father Joel. “That body, your life, it’s mine. Always has been!”

Joel recoiled, his beard quivering. “Y-You don’t want this, Liam. My body’s a wreck, so hairy, constantly sweaty, and literally falling apart. I’m forty-two, stuck in a boring office job, pushing papers all day. You’ll lose twenty-four years of your life!”

Liam’s grin widened, his mind painting a vivid picture: himself as his father Joel, sitting at a desk, shirt stained with sweat marks under his pits, the musk of his hairy body filling the cubicle, colleagues staring at his commanding bulk.

“Oh, I want it,” he purred, leaning forward, voice dripping with depravity. “I want every hairy inch, every drop of sweat, that boring job, all of it. It’s mine, Dad, and I’m taking it back.”

Joel’s face crumpled, his voice a plea. “You’re young, Liam. You’ve got your whole life. Don’t throw it away for… for this!” He gestured at his hairy thick frame, but Liam’s eyes gleamed, devouring the chest, the hair, the man he was destined to become. Or to be more correct, the man he had always been.

—

Back home, the house was a pressure cooker. Joel locked himself in the garage, his despair a heavy cloud. Karen paced, muttering about fate, her eyes red. Liam, though, was alight with perverse hunger, his cock hard as he slipped into his parents’ bedroom. He threw open Joel’s closet, the scent hitting him, cedar, sweat, and musk. He grabbed a flannel shirt, pressing it to his nose, inhaling so deeply his head spun, the musky tang making him moan.

“This is mine,” he growled, snatching a pair of khaki pants, their worn fabric heavy with Joel’s essence. He stripped to his boxers, the air cool against his lean frame, and slipped on the shirt, buttons straining, then the pants, loose but intoxicating. In the mirror, he looked absurd—too slim for his dad’s clothes—but the fantasy of filling them with Joel’s thick, hairy bulk sent shivers through him.

He rubbed his cock through the khakis, the fabric slick with precum, moaning, “Soon, I’ll be you, Dad. Sweating in these, waddling through your office, stinking of you.” He came in the pants, shuddering, the mess a promise of the life he’d claim.

That night, Liam knocked on Joel’s door, voice firm. “Dad, we need to talk.”

Joel, slumped on the couch, looked shattered, his beard flecked with sweat, eyes hollow with dread. “What’s there to say? I can’t believe this isn’t my life, my real body...”

Liam’s gaze devoured Joel’s body—his original body—lingering on the hairy forearms, the furry chest straining his tee, the faint musk wafting from him. “I want to see it. My body. Before tomorrow.”

Joel flinched, shaking his head. “That’s sick, Liam. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Liam stepped closer, voice low, dripping with lust. “It’s mine, Dad. My birthright. I need to feel what’s always been mine.” Joel’s shoulders sagged, too broken to fight, and he nodded, trudging to the bedroom, each step a surrender of the life he’d known.

On the bed, Joel stripped, his movements slow, reluctant, his face a mask of shame. Liam’s breath caught as his dad lay back, naked, the hairy, thick-muscled body he’d craved exposed in all its glory. Thick chest hair curled in dark waves, spilling down to a soft, furry belly that jiggled with each breath. Joel’s cock, nestled in a bush of pubes, hung heavy, his balls low and full, glistening with sweat.

Liam knelt beside him, hands trembling with ravenous excitement, his erection painful in the khakis. “This is mine,” he purred, voice thick, running his fingers through the chest hair, tugging hard, relishing the coarse texture. “All this hair, this sweat, it’s what I was born to have.”

Joel tensed, eyes shut, his body a betrayed temple. “You don’t want this, Liam,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It’s heavy, it’s messy, it’s not what you think.”

Liam smirked, pinching the furry bear gut, squeezing the flesh, moaning at the give. “Oh, I want it, Dad. I want to feel this belly bounce, to smell your pits after a day at that boring office. It’s mine, and I’m fucking taking it back.”

He leaned in, pressing his nose deep into Joel’s hairy armpit, the musk—sweaty, primal, intoxicating—hitting him like a drug. He groaned, tongue flicking out to taste the salt, his cock leaking as he nuzzled deeper.

“God, this smell,” he moaned, voice muffled. “It’s me, Dad. This is what I’m supposed to stink like.”

Joel shuddered, a sob escaping. “Please, Liam, this isn’t right... Don’t do this.”

Liam ignored him, hands roaming to Joel’s face, stroking the beard, tracing every scar, every pore. “This face,” he whispered, voice a low growl, “it’s mine. These eyes, this beard… I’ll wear them, I’ll live them.”

He slid lower, eyes locked on Joel’s cock, tugging playfully, feeling it twitch, then cupping the balls, rolling them, savoring their weight. “And this,” he purred, “this cock, these balls… they’re mine, too. I’ll stroke them, play with them, cum as you.”

Joel grunted, face flushed with humiliation. “It’s not a gift, Liam. It’s a burden.”

Liam leaned close, inhaling the musky scent of Joel’s groin, and dragged his tongue across the tip, savoring the salty precum. “Just tasting myself,” he growled, grinning as Joel’s breath hitched, his body betraying him. “It’s perfect, Dad. Every inch of you is what I was born to be.” Joel turned away, silent, his spirit crushed.

Liam sat back, eyes burning with depravity. “One last time, Dad. Jerk off for me. I want to see my body in action.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, tears welling, but he complied, wrapping a meaty hand around his cock, stroking slowly, each pump a funeral for his identity. Liam watched, mesmerized, his own erection soaking the khakis. The sight of his dad’s hairy hand pumping, the pecs jiggling, the low, pained grunts was everything he’d fantasized, now amplified by the truth that it was rightfully his.

“That’s it,” Liam whispered, imagining himself stroking that cock, sitting in Joel’s office chair, sweat dripping, khakis tented. “Show me what’s it like cumming as me, Dad.”

When Joel came, ropes of cum splattered his chest and beard, a final act in a body he’d never touch again. Liam leaned in, swiping a bead from the beard, licking it slowly, eyes locked on his father, and moaned, “Thanks for keeping my body warm all these years, Dad. You did so fucking good.”

Joel turned away, sobbing, but Liam wasn’t done. He climbed onto the bed, hugging his dad tight, hands groping the hairy, thick flesh, squeezing the belly, the thighs, the furry ass, fingers digging into every inch he’d soon own.

“Tomorrow, this is mine,” he whispered into his father’s ear, voice dripping with lust, his cock grinding against his father’s hip through the khakis. “Your life, your body, your smell, your boring job… it’s all going to belong to me, Dad. I’m finally coming home.”

Joel shuddered, his sobs muffled, but Liam pressed closer, savoring the warmth, the musk, the reality of stealing his father’s entire existence.

—

The next morning, the sun cast harsh light through the blinds, and Liam was awake before dawn, his lean body thrumming with perverse anticipation. He’d slept in Joel’s khakis, the scent of his dad’s sweat clinging to him, and jerked off three times in the night, each orgasm a vow to claim his birthright. Downstairs, Joel was a ghost, slumped at the kitchen table, unshaven, his thick beard flecked with crumbs from untouched toast. His eyes were bloodshot, hands trembling around a coffee mug, the weight of losing his life etched into every line.

Karen hovered, wringing her hands. “We have to go, Joel. They said it’s mandatory.”

Joel slammed the mug down, coffee sloshing. “Mandatory? They’re taking everything from me!”

Liam, leaning in the doorway, watched with a twisted mix of pity and hunger, his gaze devouring his father’s hairy forearms, the furry chest straining his tee. That’s mine, he thought, his cock hard in the khakis, precum soaking through as he kept picturing himself at his father’s desk, sweat stains blooming, his hairy bulk commanding the room.

The drive to the facility was a funeral procession. Joel gripped the pickup’s steering wheel, knuckles white, his despair a tangible fog. Karen murmured about “doing what’s right,” her voice cracking. Liam sat in the back, staring at his dad’s broad shoulders, the curl of hair at his neck, imagining licking the sweat there, owning that flesh. He adjusted himself, the perverse thrill of becoming his father making him lightheaded, his erection a constant ache.

At the facility, they were ushered into the sterile room, where two sleek, pod-like chambers loomed, their glass glinting under fluorescent lights. The scientist waited, clipboard in hand, his tight smile doing little to ease the tension.

The scientist cleared his throat, facing Joel’s scowl and Liam’s eager, lustful grin. “Before we proceed, there’s a critical update. To ensure the minds adapt smoothly, we must transfer all memories and knowledge between you. Liam will receive Joel’s full life experience. Basically all his skills, his past, his personality traits. Joel, you’ll receive Liam’s.”

Joel’s face went ashen, his voice a broken roar. “What the hell? That wasn’t the deal! You’re stealing my fucking memories too?!”

Liam’s breath caught, his cock throbbing so hard he nearly moaned. Not just his dad’s body—his hairy chest, bearded face, musky scent—but his mind? Every moment of his father’s life—growing up with his grandparents, fucking Karen, downing beers with that gruff laugh, sitting at his desk with sweat-stained shirts—would be his? His mouth watered, precum dripping down his thigh as he pictured himself being Joel, fully, irrevocably, his hairy bulk sweating through a day at the office.

“That’s… fucking perfect,” Liam growled, voice thick with desire, unable to hide the bulge in his khakis.

Joel shot to his feet, chair crashing. “No! I didn’t sign up for this! You’re not taking my memories!” He lunged for the door, his heavy frame moving with desperate speed, but two guards in black uniforms blocked him, their grips iron.

“Mr. Lawson, this is regulation,” the scientist said calmly, nodding to the guards.

Joel thrashed, his hairy beefy arms flailing, bellowing, “Let me go! I’m not going to become my son!”

Liam watched, heart pounding, arousal spiking at his dad’s raw power—his power, soon. His cock pulsed, the sight of Joel’s chest jiggling, his beard askew, his musk filling the room, driving him wild.

“You can’t run, Dad,” Liam purred, voice low. “That body, that life, those memories—it’s all mine. I’m just taking it back, every sweaty, hairy inch.”

A guard jabbed a syringe into Joel’s neck, and his protests slurred, his body slumping, a fallen giant. “Sedation’s for his safety,” the scientist said, as the guards dragged Joel’s limp form to one of the pods.

Liam’s eyes devoured him—his body, hairy and thick, ready to be claimed—his erection painful as he whispered, “Fuck, I’m gonna love becoming you…”

Before stepping into his own pod, Liam paused, unable to resist. He crossed to Joel’s pod, where his father lay unconscious, hairy bulk sprawled, chest rising slowly. Liam’s hands trembled as he reached out, running his fingers through the thick chest hair, tugging gently, the coarse texture sending shivers through him.

“Mine,” he growled, groping the furry chest, squeezing the soft flesh, his cock leaking in his khakis. “These pecs, this hair—it’s always been mine.”

He leaned down, face inches from his father’s, and stroked the beard, feeling every scar, every bristle, the musk of sweat and cedar overwhelming. “So fucking perfect,” he moaned, then pressed his lips to Joel’s, kissing him deeply, tongue plunging into his dad’s mouth. The taste—salty, earthy, with a hint of coffee and cum from last night—flooded his senses, and he groaned, sucking on Joel’s beard, relishing the flavors that would soon be his forever.

“I’m coming home, Dad,” he whispered, licking his lips, his erection a throbbing promise as he pulled back, panting.

The scientist gestured to the second pod. “Liam, please.”

Liam stripped to his boxers, stealing one last glance at his lean, smooth body before climbing in, the cold metal a shock against his overheated skin. His unconscious father remained in the opposite pod, his hairy bulk still, his musky scent lingering even from across the room. Liam’s gaze locked on him—his body, his life—and he moaned softly, “Can’t fucking wait to begin my life anew with that body…”

The scientist adjusted dials, explaining, “The process will transfer your consciousness and all memories. You’ll wake as your biological selves, fully integrated.”

Joel stirred faintly, mumbling, “No… not my son…” his voice a fading plea, but Liam just grinned, his cock leaking as the pod’s lid closed, the final barrier to his destiny.

A hum filled the chamber, vibrations pulsing through Liam’s body. His vision blurred, a flood of images crashing in—Joel’s childhood, running through fields, his first kiss with Karen under a streetlight, the burn of whiskey at a bar, the weight of a pen in calloused hands at his desk, sweat soaking his shirt.

Liam’s own memories of sneaking his dad’s shirts, licking his cum last night, kissing his beard moments ago slowly mingled, then faded, drowned by his father’s life pouring in. Pain seared his skull, then pleasure, raw and primal, as his consciousness stretched, reshaped. He felt heavier, thicker, his senses sharpening—cedar, sweat, musk enveloping him. His cock, his father’s cock, throbbed, and he groaned, the sound deep, gravelly, his. The hum peaked, a white-hot surge, and then complete blackness.

—

When Liam opened his eyes, the pod’s lid was open, and the world was his. He sat up, slow, heavy, his body dense with glorious weight. His broad, rough, knuckles scarred hands flexed, and he ran them over his chest, fingers sinking into thick, curly hair that felt like home.

“Holy fuck,” he rasped, Joel’s voice, now his, vibrating in his throat.

He looked down, grinning at the furry chest, the hairy thighs, the cock nestled in dark pubes, already hard and leaking. He swung his legs out, standing, the floor cool against his bare feet, and caught his reflection in the pod’s glass. Joel’s face, his face, stared back: blue eyes, scruffy beard, short thin hair. He stroked the beard, moaning at the coarse texture, then lifted an arm, burying his nose in the hairy armpit, inhaling the musky, sweaty scent he’d worshipped.

“I’m him,” he growled, cock pulsing, precum dripping as he groped his belly, his balls, relishing the perverse truth: he was Joel, his own father, every hairy, thick inch rightfully his, with every memory of backpacking as a young man, fucking Karen, sweating through endless office days his to fully savor.

He flexed his thick arms, feeling the weight, the power, and imagined himself at Joel’s desk, shirt clinging to his hairy chest, sweat marks blooming under his pits, the musk of his body filling the cubicle.

“Fuck, I’m gonna stink up that office,” he moaned, stroking his cock, the fantasy of living Joel’s boring, sweaty life pushing him to the edge. Across the room, the other pod opened, and a lean figure sat up—Liam’s old body, now housing his former father’s shattered mind.

“What… where am I?” the former Joel mumbled, his voice high, confused, green eyes wide as he patted his smooth chest, his slim frame. “No, no, this isn’t me!” He stumbled out, catching sight of his former son now in his body and froze, his face crumpling. “You… you’re not me!”

Liam grinned, stepping closer, his hairy bulk looming, his musk filling the air. “I’m you, Dad. Or, well, I’m Joel now. Feels so fucking good.”

The former Joel backed away, tears streaming. “They took everything! My life, my memories, my body!” His voice cracked, a man stripped of his identity, his twenty-four years stolen by the son who now stood before him, groping his own furry chest with a lustful grin.

Liam’s eyes roamed his old body, but it felt irrelevant, a discarded shell. He was home, in this hairy, thick flesh, his father's office skills, his gruff laugh, his entire life wired into his brain.

“Sorry, Son,” he purred, voice dripping with depravity, squeezing his cock, moaning as he pictured himself in his khakis, sweat-stained and musky at the office. “This is mine now. Your thick beard, your furry pecs, your boring job… I’m gonna live it, stink it up, make it mine.”

The former Joel sobbed, shaking his head. “I-I know I’m not Liam! I should be Joel Lawson!!”

The scientist intervened, voice calm. “The transfer was successful. You’re in your biological bodies, with full memory integration. Adjustment will take time.”

But former Joel’s cries were a dirge, his despair a stark contrast to Liam’s ecstasy, his heavy steps a triumphant march as he followed the scientist for debriefing, already planning his first night of jerking off in Joel’s crisp shirts, hitting a leather bar, fucking a bear senseless as the musky, hairy daddy he was born to be, his father’s life now his to fully live out for the rest of his days.

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